A Confession in Color

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A smear across the sight, stroked tenderly into the canvas like a confession. A priest standing alone among the ancient trees, bone and breath given over to God and the heavens, the luminance waiting patient above him. The colors burn bright here, vivid and alive, yet one of the written vows is to refuse indulgence. No matter how sweetly the nectar of it flows. No matter how richly this heaven he paints bleeds into the world.

For which he wanted to see, to feel the reasons, this sentience, a hand he cannot reach for he feels it is not his turn. A light that for the darkest of moments fires wildly around him, a scene that does not showcase for it exists only in his head. A truce begins as he feels the luminosity before the destruction, ethereal and otherworldly. He falls down to his knees, so be it his last moment the most virtuous. A heretic to doubt it all.

The calling not yet for him, a celestial spark in his heart that leaves like it arrived, a lightning leaving without an instant to react to. Perhaps a moment of this passing will have him hopeful for a millennia. A white spirit pure, devoid of gaffe, the angelic face spirited away with the heavenly drums, toward a child with a gentleman forwarding him to the road, without a care in the world, clothes torn apart, no shoes. He stops as if going further is not for him now, feeling the pull of the resurrection, time bending, his caretaker a rugged man, pulls him, but the child is a dead weight, meanwhile he feels light as ever.

The glimpses of the warm care of a mother, he does not remember the face, still not he sees but the grip of the comfort and peace is far greater, the worthy are often not the ones…

Concurso de Arte y Escritura #189 y Ganadores de la Edición #188/ Art and Writing Contest #189 y winners de la Edición #188